Time and Feelings
by permanthiatus
Summary: "He remembered the feeling of confusion when he realized he might be a little bit in love with the Boy-Who-Lived, and how it felt like it happened yesterday, and decided that, yes, time and feelings were peculiar things." UNDER EDITING


**A/N: Wow. Two stories in one day! Even though the story isn't even a thousand words (only thirty words shy!), I'm feeling pretty accomplished. This is my first story for this pair, which is hard to believe considering I love them both so much. Anyway, I hope you all enjoy the story! **

**Rating: K+ for mentions of death. Come on, there's been worse on Disney!**

_**Disclaimer: I do not, nor do I claim to, own Harry Potter. If I did, there'd be a lot more slash, multiple people wouldn't have died, and Dumbledore wouldn't be considered an idol...**_

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><p>Cheers and clinks of glasses toasting glasses bounced of the walls. Families reunited, sobbing for joy and clutching tightly at their loved ones. Brothers and sisters apologized for all the silly fights and parents babbled soothing, proud words. Everyone was celebrating and he couldn't understand why.<p>

Why did all these people smile and laugh and exchange playful banter when one of the greatest, if not _the_ greatest, wars of all time had just taken place? How could they, he wondered, when there were hundreds of dead bodies on either side of the room?

No one seemed to notice them, though. It was as if a curtain had fallen down and blocked the non-living away or as if everyone was simply pretending that they were sleeping. _Oh, no, they just drank to much. They'll be find in the morning. Don't mind the blood and lack of pulse, it's normal. Would you like a biscuit?_

It disgusted him that the wizards and witches could dance and sing at a moment like this. Most, no, _all_, of them had lost someone, he was sure of it. How could they just ignore that? He didn't know.

He slipped past everyone, nodding in the direction of whomever shouted his name, but didn't stop to chat with anyone. He slid by Seamus and Dean, who were to busy carrying in more Firewiskey to notice him, and out of the Great Hall.

He walked through the castle that was his home, taking in the sight of torn portraits and crumbled suits of armor. His eyes dragged across the many scorches on the walls and floor from curses and the dried blood that seemed to be everywhere. His nostrils and throat burned with the smell of rotting flesh. Every step he took was announced by the crunch of stone from the broken castle. His skin chilled from the cold air that was flowing through the holes in the walls and ceiling of the once proud standing Hogwarts. Briefly, he wondered why it was so cold midday during summer, but he didn't care enough to continue the thought.

Eventually, his wondering brought him back to his old dormitory (old, because he wasn't sure if he was coming back to complete his seventh year). It was weird to think that not even a week ago he was lying on his bed, which was amazingly still standing, along with the rest of the four-posters, plotting ways to keep Dumbledore's Army running.

"Strange, isn't it?"

The voice startled him into making his first sound in hours, and his throat burned as the yelp forced it's way past cracked lips. He spun around quickly, wand already out and pointing in the general direction of the voice.

He was met with tired green eyes, purple circles only enhanced by the vivid color of the irises. The eyes slid down to land on the wand that was pointed at chest-height, then back up again to his face. They blinked sluggishly. "Sorry, I didn't mean to frighten you."

Neville cleared his throat, wincing when it only served to scratch uncomfortably at the dryness. "I-It's fine. I guess I still have some adrenaline in me."

Harry bobbed his head, leaning heavily against the wooden pole of his own bed. Neville wondered how he didn't notice him before. They stared at each other for what was possibly minutes, neither one of them seeming to have the strength to break the heavy gaze.

Finally, Neville gathered up enough energy to ask, "What's strange?"

The bespectacled boy – _man_, Neville corrected himself – shrugged and patted the spot next to him. He dragged his feet over to the bed, dropping down onto it, suddenly feeling as if he had a thousand bricks on his shoulders.

Only when he was seated and in a semi-comfortable position, which is probably all he was going to get with the multiple aching cuts and bruises on his body, did Harry answer, "Time." He paused for a second, seemingly trying to dig a path into Neville's soul with his emerald gems. "And feelings."

Neville continued to peer into those eyes for a couple more minutes, complementing.

He remembered the feeling of determination when he was a little boy and he'd sat by his parents side and promised to exact revenge on the person who made them how they were. He remembered the grateful feeling of relief when he bounced down the steps his Great Uncle Algie had thrown him down. He remembered the feeling of joy that sprung up in his chest when the Sorting Hat called out Gryffindor. He remembered the feeling of finally belonging when he was allowed into the D.A. He remembered the feeling of confusion when he realized he might be a little bit gay and a little bit in love with the Boy-Who-Lived. And now, he remembered how all those things seemed like they happened yesterday, and decided that, yes, time and feelings were both very peculiar things.

A tug on his hand brought him out of his musing about the past and he found that he now laid facing the raven-haired, emerald-eyed, bespectacled man with sun-kissed skin that made him catch on to the reason that he never thought of girls as anything but pretty people who were pleasant to talk to.

They merely laid there for awhile, green eyes boring into brown. Sooner or later (time seemed to have decided to be strange and dissolve into nothingness at the moment, so he didn't really know how long it had been), Harry yawned quietly and his eyes fluttered closed.

"Goodnight, Nev." He murmured, fingers reaching out to intertwine with his own, just before his breathing evened out with sleep.

His own eyes drooped with exhaustion, so he whispered his own, "Goodnight, Harry," tightened the hold he had on Harry, and fell into his own dreams.

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><p><strong>Review for the sake of invincible four-poster beds?<strong>


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